


Holy Hell

by DeathsFavouriteBrother



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel!Castiel, BAMF!Castiel, BAMF!Dean, Demon!Dean, First Meeting, Grace - Freeform, Hell, M/M, POV Outsider, Sexual Tension, Torture, Wings, but no sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 20:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10647489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathsFavouriteBrother/pseuds/DeathsFavouriteBrother
Summary: One Shot: Castiel goes to hell in order to rescue Dean Winchester, but the demon doesn't want to be saved.





	Holy Hell

I wasn't sure how long I'd been on the rack, trapped in this unsanitary dungeon room, but it was long enough to watch my torturer turn from man to demon. Even now, as he cut into me I noticed the differences. As a human, he'd use whips with razors imbedded in them to strip my back to the bone and beat me with hot metal pokers. At the time, it was the worst pain I'd ever had the immence displeasure of experiencing, but now I was usually in several large pieces by the end if each session. The torture sessions were divided by five or so mintues where I was completely healed and left tied tight to the rack to anticipate what new toy he would inevidibly bring back. 

This time, it had been an oddly short, wide knife that had been shoved into my throat before anything else happened, effectively severing my vocal cords. Note: in my throat, not down. One of the perks of being tortured in hell is that you're already dead. There isn't any part of you they can't dice, slice, or fry. 

However, this particular guy liked to leave my eye balls intact. Probably so I could watch the mutilation of my body (or, possibly, soul). Today, he forced me to watch as he cut apart my intestines. He hacked it away bit by bit, occasionally yanking to get more length out of my jaggedly ripped abdomen. Tears poured down my twisted face and stung on the countless lacerations covering the hunk of ground me. My jaw opened and clenched, but as much as I tried to scream nothing would come out. 

The demonic thing looked up from his work and stroked my jaw with the backs of his elongated fingers. His methods were not the only thing that has changed with him. His hands had become thinner and claw-like, small but noticeable nubs threatened to burst from his forehead. Spiny protrusions had split from his back and his once brilliant green eyes had been flooded with black. 

His lips parted, revealing slightly too long pointed teeth. I knew first hand that they were as sharp as razor blades. 

"I think I like this," he said and pressed on the knife imbedded in my throat, making my face screw up in pain, his voice deep and causal, "Your whining is distracting. I can't enjoy the little things as much, you know? Like this…" He plunged a finger into a thin hole from earlier with an audible squish. I arched, every working muscle in my body tense with surprise and pain, then collapsed, crying silently. He leaned closer, analyzing my face and then twisted his finger. Shying away in the inch allowed by my restraints only increased the pain. 

He laughed and withdrew. He turned and gestured lazily back at me. I felt my flesh knit back together and intestines begin to regrow at his movement. 

"Back in a second, dude. There's something fun I want to try next, so hang tight." I whimpered, but was glad that my vocal cords were undamaged. For the next four minutes. 

Before he could touch the dark, blood splattered door, a great rumbling shook the room. The man's head jerked up sharply. He looked... confused? No, afraid. Were there earthquakes in hell? Hellquakes? Somehow, however, I knew that my torturer was not the kind to be as terrified as he looked now of Hellquakes. 

The rumbling was reaching a bone-shaking crescendo and a  
blue-white light filled the space between the door and the other man, gathering in a large shape. Slowly, it took a humanoid form with what looked like two huge umbrellas hanging over it. Features cleared: dark messy hair, a handsome but slightly inhuman face, eyes glowing the blue of stars, some long, shining garment that hung over his hips, and two partially charred wings. 

I gaped. "Oh shi-" 

"Hello, Dean Winchester," it spoke calmly, voice even deeper than my torturer's: Dean, apparently. 

Dean bared his teeth at the name. Seemingly over his fright, he picked up a knife lying on the table, a long serated one that could cut bone. The winged creature hand no weapon in hand. 

"So," Dean jeered, "What are you supposed to be? Some stripper reject come to try out my rack too?" 

"I am an angel," it answered, unperturbed by the blade. "I have been sent to rescue you."

He scoffed. "Who the here told you I needed rescuing?"

The glowing figure didn't smile, but looked at Dean's knife, then me like I had chosen to be here, and that decision offended it. 

Dean took its momentary distraction as an opportunity to lunge forward and stab at the angel, but it effortlessly caught his knife hand at the wrist. It glared at the demon without fear, only scorn. 

The air crackled with sexual tension. Or possibly the Angel's unfathomable power, I can never tell the difference. 

"Dean. Do not fight me," the Angel rumbled in warning. 

Dean merely laughed and dropped the knife into his other hand, then attempted to gut the Angel. 

For a moment it looked surprised, but in the next all emotion was gone. It wheeled the demon around with his trapped hand and, with a flick of its glowing wrist, flung him across the room. Dean hit the far wall face first with an extremely satisfying and fatal sounding crack...

... Then immediately rose back to his full height, black eyes narrow, a dangerous snarl on his lips. He darted back to the Angel, delivering a hurricane of fierce blows to it. 

Except not a single one hit. Wings tucked tightly to his back, the glowing creature deflected every punch or kick aimed at it with a immovable forearm or simply swayed to avoid them. Dean yelled and pressed closer, the time between strikes lessening. To my dismay, the Angel was having trouble blocking the hits. It moved to avoid one jab that nearly hit its throat, but it leaned back too far. The single imprecise movement cost it a moment and its perfect balance. 

And again, the experienced fighter he was, Dean took advantage of it. Laughing with the thrill of the fight, he kicked it square in the stomach, toppling it over onto the stained floor. 

Its wings swung out to catch itself. 

They were beautiful. Every colour on the spectrum seemed to be worked into the wings like a black rainbow: velvet indigo at their base that swooped up into shimmers of emerald, gold, copper, and glints of red that were cut off by the wing's burnt tips. 

Ignoring or apathetic towards the display, Dean reached for two small knives on his cart. A piercing sound, like the noise a flying missile makes in the movies, began emanating from the Angel. It most certainly didn't make up an English word, nor did it sound like any language I had ever heard, but some how I understood it. 

Enough, the Angel said, with plenty of power and authority to make Dean hesitate coming back at it. 

Its eyes grew brighter for a moment and Dean's right blade flew out of his hand and impaled itself between my bound hands. Dean watched its flight opened mouthed for a moment, then clenched his teeth and tried an overhand strike at the Angel's neck with his armed left hand. Again, it caught his wrist, but instead of talking, it twisted Dean around, pinned his arm behind his back, and none to gently pushed him several unsteady steps forward into the wall. The creature's eyes didn't fade and it slipped its free hand under Dean's right arm and clamped it onto his left shoulder. For one still second, they were trapped together like that: Dean pressed between the stone wall and the Angel's chest by its iron arm, his own pinned behind him by its other hand. 

Then the Angel glowed more brightly, painfully brightly, light flowing through veins to the hand on Dean's shoulder. It lit up like a small sun in the dark room and the demon began to scream. It was a deep, primitive sound, far to loud and large to come from anything remotely human. He arched into the Angel, head falling back into the crook of its neck, as its blue light started to come out in beams from his eyes and mouth, and where the bright hand contacted his skin. I saw new skin close over his spines and the bumps on his forehead disappear. His screams became higher pitched and human. Red tendrils of light joined the icy white in Dean's eyes, first only like jagged licks of flame, then smoothing into long scarlet curls that twisted congenitally with the blue beams. 

The Angel had its head bowed slightly and eyes tightly closed, entirely concentrated on its task.  
Dispite the demon's anguish, I felt like I was intruding on something delicate, private. 

After a couple minutes, Dean's screams fell to whimpers, and the Angel's face relaxed, it's forehead falling to Dean's shoulder, but its arms didn't loosen. The lights in Dean's eyes, mouth, and shoulder faded and he fell limp in its arms. All that was left were green irises and constricted pupils, and a handprint faintly glowing from under the Angel's palm. 

Another few seconds pasted by, everyone in the room completely still. Then, it lifted its gorgeous wings around them both. They collapsed into a ball of red and sky blue light and ascend up through the ceiling and, as far as I could tell, out of hell. 

I stared at the spot where they disappeared, pierced with the disappointment that it didn't free me too. Then I looked at the knife between my hands. 

Huh. 

He tried to give me a way out. 

As I slid my bindings over the knife's edge, I thought of their fight and snorted. 

"They are totally doing it." 


End file.
